


Medicine

by hrelics9



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aggressive Top Derek!, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, BAMF Stiles, College AU, Creepy gore, F/M, Gen, Insanity, Large amount of time spent in coffee shops and bookstores., M/M, Magic AU, Magic!Stiles, Power Bottom Stiles!, Pre S3B, Scott/Stiles brotp, submissive Derek!, submissive Stiles!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-25 05:26:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/949124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hrelics9/pseuds/hrelics9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He never expected to see Derek Hale again. But there he is, bundled up in a dark sweater, face freshly shaven. A coffee in his hand and his eyes bright. It’s the laugh that brought him out of his haze.  He’s only ever heard that laugh twice, neither time had it been so carefree and happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been longing for some College goodness and nothing screams College like the end of summer. :)

Stiles is acutely aware of how loud his racing footsteps are in the forest. Crunching over the frost and dusty snow cover, desperate to get farther than his feet can carry him. There’s a cold stinging in his lungs that feels like anxiety. He hears gasping that can’t be his.

Rattling in his ribcage, a howl is loud and cold. Angry.

Just when he thinks he’s free, fear comes crawling back. There’s a darkness that throbs painfully in his heart, hungry, it’s always so hungry. Stiles can’t help but feed it, just a little. Just a little…

Thin branches reach out toward him, seeking to help, but only gives stinging cuts and slows him up. He’s half stumbling now, the forest is thinning out, but there’s ground growth everywhere. Here in the dark, the moonlight isn’t a friend.

Another howl, closer. Ravage.

He’s abruptly spit out onto the wet road cutting through Beacon Hill’s forest reserve. Stiles’s body shakes with reset, eyes and mind adjusting to new surroundings. It takes him only a few seconds, but still too long. There’s howling too close to him for distance to be a comfort.  He rushes south, slower than he wants, faster than his weary body can do.  It hits him like a wave, a shock even though he knew it was there. The smell first, oil and hot metal, smoke. The moon is glinting mockingly at the ugly tangle mess of cars. Barely any light for Stiles too see.

Fuck the moon then, he doesn’t need to see, not for him. Not for Scott.

He slides the last three feet, because somehow baseball and Hollywood makes it seem much faster than running. It’s not. He gets burning and ripped flesh for it. He nearly collides with Scott’s heap of a body. There’s ugly gashes in Scott’s side, shards of metal sticking in his right arm, his leg. Blood drips down over his eyelids and lips, hair sticky and flat against the wound.

Stiles shakes and shakes until he’s falling apart, pulling Scott close to him. He feels around in his hoodie pocket for the antidote, the smallest needle he grabbed. He chokes on a laugh, Melissa always told them not to run with needles.  Or maybe it was just not to run near needles. Why were he and Scott even running around in hospitals anyway?

Scott chokes out a wet syllable.

Stiles sticks the needle in his arm and shakes, willing the needle to push in faster. It’s never fast enough is it? Is it Stiles?

Nothing happens.

Fear rips from him in screams. Tares up his throat. Spills from his eyes.

“Scotty.” Not Scott, not his brother.

There’s another needle in his pocket, bigger, loaded. He plunges it down into Scott’s chest, blinded by darkness. There’s warmth near his ear. A growling and then pain, so much pain. Scott, he’s gone from Scott. Panic is weighing down on him, pushing him down into the roughed up asphalt. He can’t breathe. He flails, anything, _something_. Something sharp and hot, but he doesn’t need to identify it, it’s his savior.

He thrusts with everything left in his bones and muscles. There’s a dark howl louder than a gunshot and Stiles scrambles to his tired feet. He gets a glance at Scott, whose rising slowly. Alive, he’s alive. That spark in his heart pushes him to tears, relief. He’s still got Scott. Scott whose shaking in anger, eyes bleeding out red. Stiles frowns, he doesn’t understand. But he can’t think through it, not right now, when he’s being forced fed his crashed jeep. Claws are digging deep into his back, reaching for something that isn’t there.  They scrape, drag down and to the left, searching for something Stiles doesn’t have. He can’t throw the beast off; he’s got nothing left, nothing except his screams.

Pain is just a small escape from the darkness clutching around his heart.

Stiles is aware of no more. There’s a terrified roar. It’s ok, Scotty.

“ _Don’t be afraid_.”

***

The cold has sunk into his veins when he’s dragged back to consciousness from a ghost. Scott’s voice is soft and broken in his ear.

“Oh god, Stiles. Shit, _shit, Stiles_.” 

He lifts lashes weighed down by sleep to stare into the darkness. It takes a moment for Scott's moonlit silhouette to be more than just shadow. He smirks as much as his cut up face lets him.

“Hey Scotty.” He doesn’t sound right, too feeble and raw.

Scott’s got a hand around his neck, another up his shirt,

“Hey, bud, we’re not that kind of friends.” he slurs, Scott chokes out a laugh that sounds more like a whimper. He gently bumps their foreheads together and a warmth spreads on Stiles skin from Scott’s hands. The pain isn’t as bad now, dims enough for Stiles to shift just a bit. Over Scott’s shoulder there’s a still mass.

Peter’s body is oozing blood onto the road. His eyes are wide open, soulless and blue. There’s a ghost imprint of a smile on his face. Probably the same ghost that brought Stiles back to consciousness. A sadness fills him, one deep enough that makes his heart skip. Peter wanted to die this time. To end the suffering. It was his rage that made him ravenous enough to take others with him.

Stiles wonders if Derek would have ended up like that if he had stayed in Beacon Hills.

Scott’s whispers are lulling him back to the darkness and Stiles doesn’t want to go. He’s too drained to fight it with more than a whine.

***

There’s a gun calloused hand in his hair and a soft voice in his ear the next time he wakes. It’s the only thing he can focus on for a full minute before the consistent beeping alerts him to his location. His senses start coming back in a rush after that. The weight on the bed to his right hip, the soft sounds of a whispering conversation to his left, too young to be adults.

He breathes deep and there’s a start next to him.

“He’s awake.” Scott’s slipping a hand into his own and squeezing tight.

Stiles’s eyes are the last thing to drag back from the drug induced slumber. They open slow, scared to see what’s surrounding him. He’s greeted with his Dad’s worried face and Scott’s best puppy eyes.

“You got him.” He slurs at Scott.

“Yeah,” he doesn’t miss the way Scott’s eyes flicker to the Sheriff.

“You got the zombie-wolf.”

Its Isaac’s startled laugh that sets the others off. Stiles feels the darkness recede.

***

Two months later, a fox demon comes rolling into town on the heels of a storm. She’s more cunning and quiet then they are used too.

Stiles is forced into igniting his spark before it consumes him. Deaton’s reluctance is more than just a sting, but there’s no other choice really.

Scott sits with him while needles ink in symbols and lines on his forearm. He makes fun of him for getting such a girly tattoo. Stiles punches his arm. There’s nothing girly about henna tint. And there’s nothing girly about druid symbols for protection of loved ones and strength through death and pain.

Scott gives him sad eyes and Stiles looks out the window the way back home.

His spark is just becoming a flame when the first body shows up. Lydia screaming a chant the whole way. Deaton’s the one that finds the body though. It means something, Stiles senses it, but nothing is ever said. Nothing except the notion of keeping a better eye out for the fox.

She gets the better of them more than once.

She gets everything of Deaton before disappearing.

Stiles is lost without a guide through the flames. He’s left with a broken arm and twenty stitches too.

***

Christmas is spent at the hospital. Stiles falls into magic and myth during the day and into anxiety nightmares at night.

His Dad takes a week to wake up.

They drink up a few snuck in shots to bring in the new year.

***

Prom night is filled with screams and pain. Lydia loses her left pinky, cut clean off. Used for some darkness to take away Danny’s hearing for a month. It’s only Stiles’s half learned magic that keeps the school from crumbing down on them. He loses a nerve cluster in his right thigh in return.

They never figure out what attacked them.

The darkness grows faster than mold in his heart.

***

Graduation night is ruined by an incubus with blonde hair and green eyes. He narrows in on Stiles for a terrifying hour in a class room during the after celebration. He nearly takes something impossible to give back. It pushes and pushes on Stiles's mind for a while after.

Scott sleeps over almost every night until the cold sweats and shakes fade.

***

The first month of summer is a shit storm of imps, goblins, faeries, demons, and elves. Lydia and Danny take off for college early it gets so bad. The twins leave with them. Scott’s the one who insists and they eventually go, fighting the Beacon Hills’ alpha the whole time.

Allison goes blind for two weeks. Stiles burns new tattoo’s in his arm to keep his Father, Melissa, and Chris safe. They’ll be heading off soon, but Beacon Hills won’t slow down just because they aren’t there.

Scott loses some of the light in his eyes.

***

The second month of summer is impossibly quiet and Stiles spends all his time creating as many protective enchantments as possible.

***

The third month is much of the same. There’s unease about the town that fills Stiles’s stomach, slow and bitter. The forest is too still, too quiet.

Isaac says the trees smell of decay. Something’s coming.

Stiles works in as many protective charms as he can; everything he can do, symbols, wind chimes, spells, anything. Just as long as his Dad will be safe without him. He over does it on a scorching day, over heats and is stuck in the hospital for two days. Scott sits over him with hard eyes.

Stiles tries to call him back from the darkness, swiftly failing.

He’s losing Scott.

***

It’s the first real chilly day when they pack up the jeep to its bursting point. They’re all standing around in hoodies and jackets, shivering in the fog that keeps rolling in. Allison huddles close to Isaac and Scott with giggles and half complaints of the cold. Isaac whines with her, even though everyone knows he’s being a suck up. Scott’s happy to cuddle in close with both of them, snickering and shooting his puppy eyes everywhere.

Stiles doesn’t want to ruin the good mood so he stays silent. But there’s a reason for the early cold. There’s something lurking in the fog, sucking the forest dry. He can feel its eyes on them, on _him_.

Melissa cooks everyone pancakes, shoving syrup covered plates at everyone, including the Sherriff. Stiles only gives half a stink eye, he’ll let this one slide. Only because he’s leaving off to better educate his peers. They stand around, letting their parents ask if they have everything they need more than once. When it’s getting late in the morning and rain clouds look heavy, Stiles gives his Dad a tight hug and ignores the sting in his eyes.

They have to wait in the idle car for Melissa to let Scott go.

The first ten minutes of the drive is heavy with nostalgic silence and nervousness. It melts just as fast as they exit Beacon Hills, Allison waves at the sign that tells them so. It starts to rain and Scott blasts alternative music that longs for summer to stay. They talk and snack on junk food, though most of it gets thrown at Isaac and Scott’s heads. Stiles’s left hands cramps up half the way and Scott makes him shove over into the passenger seat at the rest stop, face set in a frown. He only allows it because of the piercing presence that lingers on the back of his neck. Even this far out, there’s something watching them. He hears it in the forest, whispers.

Allison shares an eye conversation with Stiles on the road and they just listen to soft, mellow music for an hour. Isaac falls asleep on Allison’s shoulder for the rest of the way and Stiles banters about class schedules, and roommate shit to whoever wants to listen.  When they arrive on campus, the wind is picking up and the sun is starting to set. They get half their things into the apartment before Scott conks out on the couch. They order pizza and save some for Scott before falling asleep themselves. Unpacking can be left for tomorrow.

Stiles is up with the sun and enchanting their apartment as best he can while Isaac and Scott drag the rest of their things up the three flights of stairs. Allison goes hunting for a WinCo (“because otherwise you guys will just live on takeout!”) and comes back with six bags full of food that will be all gone by nightfall. She starts on eggs as the boys bicker about where to put all the furniture and whose X-box is going to be out in the living room (Scott loses that one).

Around midafternoon they head onto the thick of the campus and gather up their schedules and fight the lines of many students for their text books. Isaac helps Stiles mentally map out where all the coffee shops are on campus, chains or not. They spend the evening snickering at Friends reruns while Stiles sets up their internet. Allison pulls up Skype the moment Stiles announces its working and calls up Lydia and Danny.

They all watch one last episode of Friends before heading to bed.

Stiles has a night full of nerve induced dreams. Of a dead, black forest full of fog and whispers. All of them involve Peter Hale and ripping apart his own flesh from within.  

 

_

Thanks for reading guys! I hope it's not too mellow for a start. lol It gets happier, I promise. :)


	2. Pick It Up and Start Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek’s standing dejectedly behind his front door when he swings it open.

 

In case anyone is interested, Medicine, by Daughter is the inspiration for this. They are a great great band. :)

___

 

It’s another rainy day when Stiles manages to drag himself out of the toasty apartment. It doesn’t make him go back inside for an umbrella, all that will do is test his will power. Stiles does _not_ have strong enough will power for that. Not when he has two quizzes and his first paper of the term due. Grudgingly, he yanks his hood over his eyes and shivers down the stairs, shoulder bag smacking against his thigh. Walking as quickly as possible without breaking into a run, he rushes around groups of students.  He’s going to be late to his Psych 101 class whether he runs or not. And the wafting scent of sugar and coffee are tempting him to skip his class altogether. He whines pitifully at all three of the cafés he passes. He can reward himself with coffee after class, even lounge around in one of them and study, with no other classes to drag himself to.

He’s pretty damp by the time he gets into the warm brick building, giving him relief from the cold, but that uncomfortable humid feeling as his clothes stick to his skin. The classroom is full of mundane students and the rain pitter-patters against the back windows. Everyone’s staring at him with judging looks and snickers, like they’ve never been late before. Lying fuckers.

There’re always empty seats in the back and slouching his way up the stairs is harder than he wants to admit. (He’s just tired; it’s got nothing to do with the weekly Costco bag of chips and top ramen, nope.) He accidently kicks his neighbor’s desk as he slides down into his own; she frowns at him with full lips. Lucky for him, the professor is late, later than he is and it gives him down time to suck in air for his half burning lungs and shuffle out his notebook and tablet. He’s still getting looks from his peers though and despite his wet messy hair and disheveled appearance, he knows it’s because he kicks everyone’s ass in the class. He’s not exactly quiet about it and when their quizzes are handed back, everyone can shift through each other’s and see who got the highest score. It makes him feel better about himself to believe they are just jealous.

That’s what Lydia would tell him to believe anyway, so why not just go ahead and think it on his own? He gets enough glares on test hand back days anyway; it is probably at least half true. Maybe.

Today is no different, when the professor finally gets in, she hands the first student the large stack of test papers and snips at everyone to settle down. She dives right into the lecture without waiting and Stiles hastily takes notes. The stack doesn’t get to him until twenty minutes into class and it’s half the size it was at the start. He takes a liberated five minutes to finish writing down what is on the chalkboard just to be an annoying shit. His neighbor keeps shoving glares his way anyway. He makes sure to send her an arrogant smirk as he shuffles through the quizzes slowly. When he finally gets around to passing on the stack, she hisses at him and grips his arm tight for a second.

He’s not expecting the unbearably hot burn. It only lasts for a second and Stiles stares hard at her with wide eyes. She’s got gages bigger than a quarter in her ears.

“What?” She snaps.

“Nothing,” he mumbles and refocuses on his notes, rubbing his forearm, “sorry.”

It’s such a bizarre thing to happen on his ordinary Friday morning that he talks himself into believing he just imagined the stinging, ghost wounds or something like that. His forearm tingles uncomfortably every now and then, but there’s nothing but his tattoos. He blames it on the near all-nighter he pulled last night.

Gage girl stares holes into the side of his head for the next two hours. It’s distracting, but not distracting enough to keep him from getting a decent amount of pages filled to the brim with notes. It’s going to take hours just to organize it all in a way his brain can filter though easily. Not that he doesn’t have time though, one of those cafés are calling his name as the professor wraps up. He can just bask for hours in a cozy corner, inhaling as much coffee as he can on a negative income. He shoots Scott, Isaac, and Allison a text, demanding they join him as soon as they get their lazy asses out of bed.

Only Allison sends him back a cheery reply before he is even done shoving everything in his bag. She’ll stop by after her mid-morning class if he’s still there, which he has no doubt he will be. Getting up out of the tiny desk sends him stumbling into gage girl and she’s nearly vibrating with irritation. He shakes off her icy glare and stumbles down the theater seating without falling flat on his face.

Outside, the rain has given way to a crisp chill and cold blue sky that only happens in autumn. The sun doesn’t provide much warmth, but it brightens Stiles’s smile. He’ll be in the safe cocoon of caffeine heaven soon anyway. It’s still morning, nearing eleven when and the café he trips into (literally, he body slams some poor redhead waiting patiently in line) is crowded. The lines are long, but the couches and tables are nearly all empty. Everyone is looking for their caffeine to go. Classes to fail, places to run too.

Stiles throws himself down into a far corner that blocks most of the glass walls of the front shop. He spreads his notes and tablet out, making the table look small with all his junk. He shrugs off his damp hoodie and drapes it over the chair on the other side of the small table, as if someone was there with him. His backpack is left in the space on the cushiony bench between his table and the next, obvious to anyone that this corner spot is his territory. Stiles snorts at himself, digs out his wallet, and goes to the back of the line. He keeps a watchful eye on his things, but no one lingers. Everyone just rushes back out the door once their steaming drink is in their hands.  When Stiles gets up to the register he smiles sympathetically at the cashier and orders his for here and tells her they can bring it over to him when the lines die down.

 All that’s left for him to do is settle into his study time then. He plugs in his ear buds with a face, he forgot his awesome headphones at home, so crappy buds will have to carry him through until Allison comes to him. He starts off with his notes from today; it’ll be clicking at the back of his mind until he gets them organized. He takes out his real study notebook, it’s thick and black, filled nicely with the terms notes, perfectly organized by class and subject. When he cracks it open, it still smells like the bookstore back in Beacon Hills.

He shifts through his new notes, re-writing everything more clearly and neatly. The ink in his pen is smooth and his hand isn’t even cramping yet. Just gentle strokes and a comfortable focus. He gets all the way through phantom limbs and why the brain perceives them as still there when he gets his coffee. It makes him think of Lydia and her small stub of a pinky now. He pulls his ear buds out and the clink of the ceramic mug on the table is like a trigger. He blinks up in surprise at the sudden wall of sound that hits him.

His hand pulses suddenly, starting to get stiff. He sighs, knowing he jinxed it just by thinking it was fine and glances at his phone, an hour passed. He ignores the unhappy faces Scott and Isaac sent him and frowns down at nothing.  It only takes three hours of writing now for his hand to start going to shit. Even with his muscle therapy, it’s getting worse. He sips at his drink with a sense of self anger. Sometimes he just wants to ask Scott to bite him, turn him, so he can be free of all these annoying little things. Human things. Stiles chews his lip, willing himself to ignore the pulsing, trying to think about the subtle taste of hazelnut on his tounge and the warm light in the café instead.

It’s a laugh that jolts him out of his trance.  A soft, deep throat laugh. It makes his eyes widen and his heart race and his chest clutch the air of his lungs. He snaps his gaze up. He grips the mug tightly in his hands.

Derek Hale is standing at the counter.

Stiles’s hand pulses painfully with his chest.

He never expected to see Derek Hale again. But there he is, bundled up in a dark sweater, face freshly shaven. A coffee in his hand and his eyes bright. It’s the laugh that brought him out of his haze.  He’s only ever heard that laugh twice, neither time had it been so carefree and happy.

Stiles finds his vision blurring a bit.

Two years and he still remembers that sound.

He blinks quickly to rid the tears in his eyes, embarrassed that just one stupid laugh could bring him to that. When he thinks about this later, he’ll realize it’s because the happiness he sees in Derek is slowly seeping out of Scott and there’s nothing Stiles can do to stop it.

But he’s still in the café and Derek is still standing right in front of him, smiling wide and relaxed. He seems years younger. The darkness in him clenches around his heart and Stiles ducks into himself when Derek turns a bit, eyes searching the café. There’s a guilt inside him that stirs.

 _Don’t let him see you_ , Stiles repeats in his head over and over. He holds his breath.

Derek’s thoughts are interrupted by Cora sneaking up behind him. She half hug-jumps him and he curls in on himself. Stiles can hear the small grunt he must let out. It’s something of an enigma to see Derek smile so genuinely and Stiles hates that it settles the darkness in him. Cora’s talking through giggles and she latches onto his arm and laughs at Derek’s eye roll. She drags him back outside into the crispy air and they are gone. There’s an energy that hovers in the wake of their bodies. 

Stiles breathes out quietly, his heart hammering. A sense of longing dimming his mind.

Stiles sits frozen until Allison comes in an hour later, worry all over her face. Her touch soothes him enough for him to uncurl and pack his bag. She drags him to a student movie showing and they go to the record store around the corner from the concert hall were they spend a good chunk of the day looking for music with soft guitar chords and clear voices. With three new albums in his bag and Allison on his burning arm, they grab Chinese; enough for thanksgiving dinner and head back to their apartment early.

Scott’s on him in a second, sensing the stiffness in his hand and the tightness in his chest. They argue for a bit while Isaac and Allison start dishing out the Chinese onto plates. Stiles gives in to Scott eventually though, with a huff and settles into the deepest corner on their shitty couch. Scott’s lacing his fingers through Stiles stiff hand and sucking away the pulsing before Stiles can even get over his annoyance.

They watch The Mummy and stuff their faces and Scott nudges them all closer and closer until they’re just a big mash on the couch. They put on Scott Pilgrim after The Mummy and forget to clean up after they can’t eat any more. Isaac nods off on Scott’s left, Allison too, her legs stretched out over Isaac and Scott’s laps. Stiles and Scott laugh and snicker at the movie until the credits are rolling and Scott keeps slipping into a light sleep. 

With the menu screen rebooting and replaying, the silence of the apartment gets loud in Stiles’s ears.

“Derek and Cora are here.” He says to no one. Scott lifts his head in recognition but doesn’t say anything. There’s not much to say anyway, their opinions on Derek Hale changed long ago. Stiles thinks of the scars on his back, of Lydia’s lost finger, of Scott’s sad eyes. How could they drag Derek back into a world that already crushed him to hollowness? Why would they?

His eyes tear up again and the embarrassment raises a faint flush on his cheeks. Scott leans heavier on him and then it’s not embarrassing any more, just more real. More raw. Is this how Derek felt when he came running after Laura? How they all feel now, how despair and death haunt them to suffocation?

Stiles understands the rage of being helpless and the numbness of hopelessness now, he feels it every day as he watches Scott slip away from him.

Its better this way, better that Stiles doesn’t reach out.

Derek looked happy, safe. He’d never seen that on Derek and it’d be unfair for Stiles to take it away from him. He takes in a breath and snuggles down against Scott’s side, resting his head on Scott’s shoulder, willing Derek’s smile from his mind.

***

He’s so distracted keeping an eye out for Derek and Cora that he doesn’t notice his arm until Monday afternoon. And it’s only because he has to ice his hand after typing for five straight hours on his mythology paper. He’s pressing cloth covered ice on his palm when his arm gives a nasty pulse. It feels like something is swimming in his veins, it makes it hard to breathe. Stiles shoves his sweater sleeve up as the pain gets worse. His tattoos are a darker red then they normally are, turning away from the henna tint, but that’s normal. A healing charm he had inked into his wrist. What’s _not_ normal are the nasty red lashes wrapped around his forearm. He stares numbly at his arm in the bathroom, sink running, with a frown.

Knowing that it’s there brings a new perspective to the weekend. A slight stinging that he has been mistaking for his hand acting up in the colder weather. The twitching he never really learned how to get control of. He hadn’t noticed anything in the shower, but he’s been in a daze since Friday. Derek and Cora are still fresh on his mind.  Derek’s haunting his nightmares with Peter now.

Shoving his arm underwater will give him relief and his tattoos get a bit more crimson as he does so. He rubs at the lashes and the relief is gone, a searing pain growing back. He shouts and yanks his arm back. The harsh red marks are blistering and tearing at his flesh, growing wider and longer, moving up his arm in a slow twist. Blood starts oozing at the wounds closest to his hand and he doubles down as the pain shoots up into white hot territory. Cursing loudly and he squeezes eyes shut. He’s losing balance, head swimming and he stumbles violently back against the bathroom wall.

There’s faint, quick footsteps he can’t focus on and Isaac’s towering over him in seconds. He kneels in close, hands soothing on Stiles’s back, voice filled with confusion. He manhandles Stiles up and out of the bathroom, nudging him down onto the couch, where the lighting is the best in the apartment.

Stiles can’t really see straight, he’s sure his arm is engulfed in flames. He can’t get his body to sit up straight and Isaac rushes off for some towels as blood starts to drip onto the carpet.

“Stiles, move, come on, sit back.” Isaac’s voice is soft and calm, stroking a hand through Stiles’s hair and uncurling his hand from his arm.

There’s blood painting his arm and puss oozing and it’s _so_ gross. Stiles swallows thickly and looks up at the ceiling, he’s not going to puke. He’s just _not_. That’ll only make this _that_ much worse. Isaac rushes a way from a moment and comes back with a few towels, wrapping one around his arm carefully, muttering apologies until he’s done.

“What the hell did you do?” Isaac asks, checking Stiles all over.

He huffs and wiggles away as much as possible, “I didn’t do this! It just….appeared.”

“Right.” Isaac said, glaring hard into his skull.

“Well it did!”

 He’s only allowed to use that excuse a few times when magic’s involved. He’s gotten away with it maybe more than he should have, because he’s stuck in between knowing how magic works and actually being a druid.

“I’m not lying Isaac, fuck, why would I do this to myself?”

Isaac’s silence is loud in Stiles’s ears and he sees it in the blonde’s eyes. Because of the darkness, because it’s getting to be too much.

“Christ, Isaac,” Stiles hisses out, his arm throbs hard, “I’m not some psyc-.”  

“Ok!” Isaac yelps, “ok, sorry,” he’s silent for a moment and giving Stiles that _look_. That stupid scared look that Scott’s been giving him for a year now, like he’s running off the deep end.

His arm thumps again, as if he forgot what was happening to him and needed a reminder. It’s even more painful and he sees white, arching his neck back against the couch, his arm is going to burn right off, he knows it.

Ok,” Isaac flows in close and wraps a hand around the back of his neck, black veins crawling up his arm already, “ok. I believe you. Easy,” he coos at Stiles for a good ten minutes, leaching away some of the pain, but it doesn’t seem to be enough.

But then his arm goes icy cold and pleasantly numb. He’s shaking as he unwraps the blood soaked towel, sweat beads cooling on his temple. Isaac rubs circles into his neck with his thumb, staring hard at Stiles’s arm.

The lashes are more obvious now, darker and wider. His Tattoos are back to their normal henna tint. His entire wrist is covered in angry red skin, long lashes getting thinner as they twist up his arm, disappearing just past his elbow. The skin looks newly healed, burns not completely mended. All Stiles can see though is blood and blisters and he swears he can see something wiggling in his veins. It takes him a few times to swallow down his bile.

“Don’t tell Scott.” Is the first thing out of Stiles’s mouth.

Isaac growls softly in the back of his throat.

“Isaac, come on man. Please, I don’t even know what this is. I don’t want him to worry about this shit so soon.”

“Stiles, if we tell him we can figure out what is happening, you know, as a _pack._ ”

Stiles flinches. He’s never really gotten what ‘pack’ really meant, whether it was Derek or Scott saying it. Isaac always says it fondly, as if there’s some deeper bond that makes them better than just close friends. Stiles can’t feel that bond, he tries, he tries his hardest, especially when Scott looks at him with cold eyes. He’s never really caught on though.

“Isaac-”

“-Stiles.”

Stiles sighs and he knows Isaac is taking that as a sign of forfeit.

“Please….just, if it gets worse we’ll tell him, ok?”

Isaac only agrees to that because they both know it’s going to get worse.

Stiles wraps his arm in white gaze and Isaac just chucks the blood soaked towel in the dumpster outside. Scott would be able to smell traces of Stiles’s blood if they just washed it. They scrub the carpet and wipe down the bathroom counter. Isaac goes about dinner with a glower on his face, torn between being concerned for Stiles and annoyed at him. Stiles just sits at the bar counter and digs into the books he stole from Deaton’s apartment. He’s only on to the second leather bound book when Allison and Scott come back from their classes. It’s not late, but the sky is already darkening in fall’s presence. There’s a rush of cold air and Stiles shuffles the books to the side. He won’t be able to hide them, but it’s pretty easy to lie to Scott, even as a werewolf. He just lets things slide until the lies hurt someone.

“Mm,” Allison curls up on the stool next to Stiles, “that smells so amazing, Isaac.” Stiles glares bullets into the back of Isaac’s head, daring him to say anything. He’s expecting the blonde to break down and tell Allison at least. But Isaac beams at her and throws in another handful of dried basil. Fondness for Isaac grows in the seat of his stomach.

Scott’s usually distracted by the smell of food too, but he’s been standing in the doorway too long now. Stiles probably looks like he’s trying too hard to act normal.

“Hey, Scotty.”

“Stiles….what’s with the books?” Scott’s shuffling in now, giving Stiles a look.

Stiles grins, “Studying, we are in college you know.”

He gets an eye roll for that, “yeah ok.” Scott lets it go. He sits on Stiles’s other side though and brushes against him every so often.

Stiles feels the sting in his arm fade every time he does.

***

It doesn’t hit Stiles until Thursday morning. He’s hunched down over his desk despite being in the front row. Every so often he feels the professor’s eyes stare a little too long at him. He’s too tired to really care. His hands are dry and stiff; he’s been up for nearly three days straight. He’d been huddle up in his room, searching and searching through endless musty smelling books. He’d ended up with nothing, no sleep, no answers, no counter spell. Just the ache in his arm and the fear that Scott would come bursting in and see it.

An underlining throb is consistent now and during his two hours of sleep last night, the lashes had grown, circling up his arm, just below his shoulder. He’d woken up with blood covered sheets and his veins spamming violently.  He’d forced down a panic attack alone and done a shitty wrap job on his arm before class. It’s oozing now. He’s exhausted and uneasy, so much that he’s been zoning out all class. But it’s his History of Mythology class and he’s drawn back from his mind easily.

“Witchcraft,” his professor says loudly, clearing her throat and glaring at a pair of girls giggling at their computer in the back, “held a large amount of fear for the general population, not only through the middle ages but-”

All sound falls silent to his ears, he can’t believe he didn’t think of it before. _Witchcraft._ It’s not something he’s come across in Deaton’s books. The druid had been very clear that witches and druids are very different. To the point that one didn’t even exist. But Stiles used to think werewolves were just a myth. Why would it be so hard to believe that witches do too?

Deaton had no proof of witchcraft magic, which doesn’t proof that they don’t exist. He won’t find anything on witches in Deaton’s books. Not the ones he’s been looking through. But there is a large box shoved under his bed, locked. Deaton had only specified that there were books in there that would haunt Stiles past his grave if he ever read them. What druids do is just testing boundaries, using the Earth, nature. Magic is something else, something evil and violent, hard to control. If it were real, which it is. He _knows_ it, the stinging in his arm tells him so. There’s an itch growing in his mind with it.

Such a thought chases away all fatigue and he’s alert throughout the lecture, leg bouncing up and down. Everything he knows about magic, which isn’t much, is frightening and terrible and of course, all just myth. He’s lost in another world for the rest of the lecture, but without his tablet or books he can’t research the hundreds of thoughts running through his head. He knots his hands, bothers his lip, twitches his foot, thinking himself into a panic.

One thing in all myths and theories about real witchcraft was the one constant of touch. The touch of a witch combined with her or his magic can create some of the darkest magic imaginable. Of course, the only person to touch him other than the pack and been that girl last Friday. His mind’s reeling and running away with questions and theories, with voices not of his own. They’re just whispers. Soft and eerie, they echo through fog and woods. Stiles’s eye twitches and he stares hard out the window. Something’s out there, hiding in the trees. The longer he stares the more he can see. The whispers are louder and it’s starting to hurt his head. Something moves in the shadows, slow…oddly.

He’s struggling for breath but he can’t look away. There’s something….red.

Peter. Those are red eyes. Peter.

“Mr. Stilinski!”

Stiles snaps back, but only just. He’s half out of his chair, arm drenched through his gaze and hoodie. It’s dripped a small red pile on the floor. He still can’t breathe and everyone is staring at him.

“Peter…” he whispers. Shit, he’d worked himself into a frenzy. His body sizes up and the panic over comes him.

He’s aware of the shouts after him, but everything is closing in and it’s too much. It’s too loud, too cold and Peter. Oh fuck, Peter Hale is here. Scott, he has to get to Scott.

He’s gasping brutally, legs burning.  His mind won’t quiet; it’s making waves of panic in his chest. He’ll be fine when he gets back to the apartment, home base, with the pack.

He turns the corner to his street, flailing about to stop. There’s a young man walking from his building, blonde hair almost white, cheekbones sharp, eyes greener then fir trees. There are hands on him, hands he doesn’t want. They’re grabbing his hair and pulling at his clothes. Forcing themselves on him. He won’t be able to get away.

Get away. Run.

Everything is wrong. He’s not where he should be. There are odd trees around him and too much fog. The ground is covered in moss, soft. The whispering is so loud, too close to him. He doesn’t know what they are saying. He doesn’t know anything, who he is, where he is. Just the fear, the darkness.

So he runs. He runs until his brain kicks start. He’s in Beacon Hills, but why, he doesn’t remember. No…wait. There were red eyes, what he’s running from. Peter.

He has to get away from Peter. Scott….he has to get to Scott, oh god; Peter’s going to kill them all.

There’s cold air in his lungs, burning. His arm feels on fire. Run, he has to get away.

He breaks into a run, rain stinging his face, numbing his hands. There are too many trees and ground growth, he’ll never make it in time, he’s-

 “Stiles?”

He’s not in Beacon Hills. Peter’s dead. Scott’s fine. He’s having a panic attack.

He’s drenched from the rain. Hair’s tickling his forehead and his palms and legs sting from the concrete where he’s flat on his back. His body is radiating with the numbness that comes from running smack into someone.

Who?

Derek Hale is standing over him, frown on and eyes concerned.

Oh no.

“Derek!” Cora yells from behind and Stiles hears her footsteps rushing over, “are you ok? I can’t believe this id-Stiles?” she pops up next to Derek and stares down at him.

No, no. He’d made a decision, he didn’t want this. No. Shit. He’s falling back into his panic. Derek’s nostrils flare out, like they always do when he’s scenting the air. Stiles has always thought it made Derek look like a horse. He wants to tell him so, but he can’t get enough air in his lungs to do so.

“Derek,” Cora’s slowly kneeling down to him, as if he were a wounded animal. Which ok, he’s wounded and panicky, and he really wishes he ran into a complete stranger, but he’s not going to bite them.

“I’ma not gunna bite.” He mumbles out in between deep breathes. Cora gives him that sad, patient laugh. He hates those laughs; it doesn’t count as a real laugh.

“Derek,” Cora repeats, “his arm…” she’s next to him now, reaching out to touch him.

No! She’s not Cora, it’s _her_ , he knows it’s her. Their hair’s the same color, they’re the same height.

“Don’t touch me!” he shrieks, anger trying to push through the panic.

A deeper voice in the distance breaks through, “Cora, stop, people are staring.”

“Well, we can’t just leave him.”

Yes, leave him. Leave him alone.

“Shit.”

There are rough hands on him. Hands that he never gave permission. He shakes, he’s trapped. He never gave _permission._

His feet drag and trip, his arm in a tight grip and he’s still cold. He just doesn’t want to go, not with _him_. Not with _her_.

Not to Peter.

“No one’s taking you to Peter.”

Who?

Breathe.

Count.

Breathe.

Who?

“-iles?”

“Come on buddy,” Scott. That’s Scott.

“Scott!”

Everything rushes to him fast, his head is pounding, he’s completely soaked and his arm is still on fire. But he’s inside, he breathes deep, as best he can. Smells like books and Isaac’s cologne, Allison’s cider apple candles, Scott’s soap. Like home. And something else, something more wild, woods-ish.

Scott’s kneeling in front of him and Stiles is shaking all over. He’s all out of adrenaline, his panic having nothing to burn on anymore. Even though it wasn’t real, just a memory, Scott’s face settles his stomach. Everything’s ok, Peter’s dead and so is the incubus. He moves to wrap Scott in a hug, but he’s held still. There are arms around him, tight, but gentle. There’s a breathing chest against his back and long legs on either side of him. The something else.

Derek.

The embarrassment he knew was coming flushes to his face. He doesn’t try to squirm out of Derek’s embrace, or away from Scott’s worried eyes. He just melts down in to himself, makes himself as small as possible. He’s totally out, done, cooked to completion.

He had one massive panic attack. Everyone will think he’d cracked due too much college pressure. Sure, that’s it. College made him crazy. What everyone thinks of him isn’t really a worry though. He’s never had hallucinations before, not ones so real.

“Let me see,” Scott reaches for Stiles arm.

He’s not fighting it and Derek’s arms fall away, but he’s still caged in by the V of his legs. Scott is tugging Stiles’s arm away from him. Stiles doesn’t want to look at him, he doesn’t want to look at anyone, so he just hides in his shoulder. He can feel the eye conversations happening over his head, but the embarrassment is still too much. He just wants to melt into the floor.

Scott’s ripping away the sleeve of his hoodie, which _hey_ , it’s his favorite. He’s had it since sophomore year; it’s the right amount of worn. The fresh air seems to dull the burning in his arm. The wounds not bleeding any more. It’s red and swollen, angry looking, blisters threatening to pop. It’s weird, starring at it. It should hurt more, but there’s nothing. He’s just warm and content, even his mortification is fading quickly. _It’s the pack_ , echoes in his head. But that can’t be right, it’ only Scott home and he’s not doing his black vein heeling trick.

He whines in confusion and for the pain he knows he should be feeling. It only makes the warmth in him stronger; it’s strongest at his shoulder and his mind finally clicks together the weight there.

Derek has slipped a hand under his hoodie collar, veins getting darker by the second. Stiles has never seen Derek do this before. Scott, sure, all the time, and a few times Isaac. It seems more incredible seeing Derek take away pain, more intimate and caring. Like he was made for it. Maybe it’s a born vs bite thing, or maybe it’s that seeing Derek do anything without anger is a small wonder in itself.

His gaze wonders without permission and he’s staring into Derek’s clear eyes. They flicker electric every so often, when a particular flare of pain flushes in his veins. He searches for the rage and the guilt that reside in Derek’s baby blues, but none of it’s there. He swallows a feeling he can’t name, he just knows it keeps his heart light.

Scott finally let’s go of his arm with a huff. Not that Stiles expects Scott to know what is happening to him, not when he can’t figure it out himself. His best friend is glaring red eyes at him and Stiles feels the nip of guilt.

“Scott,” he says, it’s raw and Stiles knows he was screaming during his panic attack.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Scott’s furious with him. He’s gone too quiet, like his body is so focused on rage that he can’t talk higher than a whisper.

 _Because your light is fading._ Stiles doesn’t say.

Scott doesn’t deserve this, the mess of the supernatural. Not when he’s so good and pure.

“Scott-” he pleads, but then there’s nothing.

***

It’s cold and dark, emptiness so large surrounding him there’s an echo. Which is weird, echoes need something to bounce off of and yet, nothing. He’s got nowhere to go and nowhere to be. So he just walks. He walks until his feet are numb and there’s a fluttering around his ankles.

“Hello?”

The rasp of his voice ignites a spark, the darkness is gone. He’s standing in the bank a river. Black trees circle him for as long as he can see. A familiarity lingers in the branches and leaves, but he doesn’t know where he is. He can’t hear anything other than a faint beating. Even when he stares hard at the river, no rushing water greets his ears. No creaking in the trees, no rustle of the wind. Just the beating. It calls him.

He goes to it, carefully, without the touch of rough bark under his fingers, or the crinkle of dead leaves. The closer he gets the louder it becomes and a fear is rising in him. But he has to know. It comes out of the trees easily, hidden within two bodies.

It’s Peter, hunched down over Scott. His Scott, whose eyes are black and cold, unnerving in an unblinking stare. There’s a pool of blood under him, too much for him to be alive and it keeps growing, slowly rolling toward Stiles. Peter’s eyes are brighter than ever and his fangs are stained black with Scott’s blood. He’s molting, muscles and bones snapping, expanding into an impossible mass.

Stiles slips in Scott’s blood, backing up blindly into the rough of a tree. Peter’s all wolf now, jaws salivating and snapping. He lunches for Stiles and all he can do is flinch and look away.

There’s no ripping of flesh or biting. There’s no contact or tackle. There’s just air. The beating is gone. He chances a peek and the forest is gone. Minty walls and a blackboard stare eerily at him. The silence is loud.

“Stiles.” He jumps, knee going right through the desk next to him. It seems an odd thing for a desk to do.

“Stiles.” It’s a low voice, a whisper and Stiles can’t find who it belongs too. He steps back into warmth he didn’t know was there.

Something’s not right; he can feel when touch was irrelative just a moment ago.

“Stiles.” The voice is in his ear and there are hands on him. Hands that don’t belong. Warmth is pressed along his back and he squirms. The hands tighten and hold him well. They move too much, they’re going places that is not allowed. Down his chest, under his shirt, sliding around his hips.

 _No._ he’s shaking, he can’t move. Everything is too much, he feels too much. It’s not supposed to be like this. He tries to shake the hands off, but they get mad and shove him against the blackboard. It radiates through him and he can’t get away.

“You’ve been a bad boy,” the voice is back and it’s lying. Hands slip into his jeans, too roughly, too much.

His arm burns. The weight on his back is heavier and his legs are forced open from a knee. He can’t breathe against the blackboard. He shuts his eyes; it’ll go away if he shuts everything out. It did last time.

“Nah-nope. Open your eyes.” a sharp thrust against him jolts his body against the board. It smells like chalk and cheap wine.

One of those hands grips his jaw and forces his neck to twist as much as it can.

“I said,” there’s a too sweet stroke of touch that contrasts the viciousness of his voice, “ _open_ your eyes.”

He opens his eyes. Derek’s only a couple feet away.

“Derek…” he murmurs. Derek will help him, even though he hates Stiles. He won’t let _this_ happen.

But Derek doesn’t move, he just stares right at him, eyes clear in the moonlight cascading in from the windows.

“He won’t help you.” Derek says with a voice that doesn’t belong to him. That voice belongs to the hands forcing Stiles open. To the body rutting against him.

 _No._ There’s a searing pain and Stiles gasps.

He’s staring at his bookshelf, sheets pooled on his lap. The dream is fading already, but he feels murky. He feels wrong. His laptop is still on, the little light blinking red at him. He forgot to turn it off. Did he save his paper? He can’t remember.

“Stiles?” he jumps and Cora’s large eyes block out the laptop, “are you ok?” she looks scared. It’s an odd look for her. Especially when there’s nothing to be scared at, not in his room.

“Cora-”

His door slams against the wall and Scott’s rushing to him with worry, “your heart,” is all he gets out before he’s crawling all over Stiles’s bed and pulling Stiles to him.

“Nightmare…” Scott smells like Allison’s perfume and hot coco. He gets lost for a moment, letting a creak from his doorway pull him back. He stares at Derek over Scott’s shoulder.

He gets a sense of déjà vu but he can’t remember why. Derek’s eyes look soft and his face is set in a gentle frown. Stiles’s heart calms almost immediately and the murkiness leaves his mind. Scott pulls back, a prideful smile on his lips. He doesn’t say its Derek’s presences that chased away the darkness. He just smiles back.

“Thanks.” He tells the empty space just behind Scott’s ear.

“Scott.” Derek’s voice cuts through the silence and brings back hardness in Scott’s eyes.

Scott sighs, “I don’t know, Derek. I’ll think about it.”

Stiles frowns and shifts away, he needs to pee. And he’s obviously not allowed to hear what they had been talking about while he was out. Their glares are inflexible like the good old days. Cora’s sigh is irritated and she looks to Stiles for agreement. He just leaves, his own irritation lingering in the empty space behind him.

His arm feels normal for the first time in a week, but when he rolls up his sleeve the mark is still there. It’s even bigger now. He has to look in the mirror to see it all. His whole arm is covered, his shoulder too. The thin ends stop just at his collar bone. He tells his panic to go away, he’ll fix it. Hollow check bones that aren’t his stare back at him. The dark circles under his eyes make them look larger, makes him look tired and scared all at once. He hears the front door open, Cora’s voice just a murmur and then the heavy shut saying the Hale’s goodbye.

He waits for Scott’s reflection, “I didn’t want to worry you.”

Scott huffs at him, “good job.” 

“Come on, Scotty. I just-” but he can’t say it. Can’t admit to Scott that he can see he’s losing to his darkness. Scott tries so hard to hide it and Stiles just doesn’t want to be another thing that adds to it. They’ve had too much misery lately, “I just didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“Isaac says you told him you were going to deal with it by yourself.”

His teeth grind in irritation, _no_ , _I implied it._

“Stiles-” nope, no. Stiles is not going to go down this road with Scott. He knows he’s losing to his own darkness; it’s why all those looks of worry boil his skin. It’s the same reason he won’t tell Scott he’s losing too. It’ll make it too real and then Stiles can’t ignore it anymore.

“Ok, I was wrong. I need help,” he turns and wills himself to stare into Scott’s eyes, “forgiven?”

He knows Scott’s picked up on his lie, but he just doesn’t want to fight and whatever is happening to him is getting out of hand. He doesn’t know what will happen when it spreads to his face. Probably fry his brain, if the burning in his veins counts for anything. He doesn’t need to be fighting with his best friend when everything else is dim.

Scotts shoulders sag, “ok, fine,” he flashes red eyes at him though, “but if it spreads again, tell me.”

“I will, dude, I promise,” he waves his hand and shifts his weight back and forth impatiently, “now get, I gotta pee.”

Scott rolls his eyes but wonders back into the depths of the apartment.

When Allison gets back from her class, Scott sits everyone down on the couch and glares around while Skype rings and rings. It’s Ethan that pops up on the screen, Danny and Aiden half listening in, until Scott growls a bit and there’s a bit of whose the better alpha. Everyone settles down and Stiles is missing Lydia, she’ll be the only one that reacts un-dramatically to this.

Scott yanks Stile’s shirt over his head and then everyone gets all squirmy and judgmental for a good long minute. It’s Allison that softens the mood and takes the focus off of Stiles. Because the bigger issue isn’t what’s happening to him, it’s what it means. Is there something targeting the pack? Or just Stiles. Scott thinks Ethan and Aiden might have some knowledge but they’re just as clueless. When Stiles brings up witchcraft, they snort at him in amusement and that dismisses the theory all around.

He really wishes Lydia was staring at him from Scott’s beat up mac. At least she wouldn’t rule it out, well, she might, but it would feel less demeaning coming from her. Probably because Stiles is just use to her affectionate exploitation.

An hour later, nothing is different. He’s still pushing away panic and he’s even more annoyed at the pack. He just wants to sleep and go to class tomorrow. Allison’s his knight in shining armor as she forces Scott down. She scolds the twins and Danny for not having Lydia with them and then settles down next to Stiles and they channel surf while Scott and Isaac slam cabinets around in the kitchen.

He knew Allison was always his favorite.

***

The first thing he looks for in his Psych class is gage girl. But there’s no one he can put a face too. He hadn’t really gotten a good look at her in the first place, but she’d had an icy blue glare and Stiles doesn’t forget his glares. He’s starting to think he made her up as their ten minute break comes around. Everyone moves around and there are so many students in lecture classes that even Lydia would have a hard time picking someone out.

He pokes around the desks he was at last week though. Everything he could find about hypothetical magic says there’s always a mark left behind after it’s been used. He doesn’t see anything out of the ordinary though and the mark that’s left could be what’s taking over the right side of his body. If that’s the mark, then something else must have been done to him. He gets a coldness seeping down his neck as he heads back to his seat. He has been having more vivid nightmares lately. And his hallucinations yesterday were new. He taps out his anxiety for the rest of class, ignoring the off stares he gets.

Feeling lost, he packs his bag slow, still looking for the girl as the class shovels quickly out the door. He has no idea where to even begin now. All his research has come up with nothing and what he does know, there is no research on. He throws his tablet angry into his bag.

“Careful, those break easily.”

His knee hits the top of the desk painfully.

“Cora,” she smiles sweetly at him, he can see her laugh in her eyes, “what are you doing here?”

“Learning, stupid,” she holds up the psych textbook with an eye roll.

He had no idea she was in this class. He’d never crossed her name on test hand back days; he’d never spotted her, never saw her leave.

“You’re in this class?” his brain supplies and she rolls her eyes at him again.

“How did you manage to get into college, Stilinski?”

Rude, his GPA is almost as good as Lydia’s. They have a mini staring contest that probably looks all kinds of awkward to the last of their classmates leaving. The guilt that appears whenever he sees one of the Hale siblings over throws his stubbornness.

“I don’t think Scott wants me tal-”

“-Derek can help you.” She cuts him off, “he probably knows what did that.” Her pony tail hits the side of her face with her nod.

His smirk melts off his face. He stands abruptly, heaving his shoulder bag over his shoulder, “I don’t want Derek’s help.” He can’t is more like it. He would love help on this, even Derek. Maybe especially Derek’s.

Her eyes harden at him and she follows him out the door, “why not? Because Scott’s got a stick up his ass?”

“ _No_ , because-” because Derek doesn’t need to get involved, “how would Derek know anyway?”

Cora shrugs, “he’s smart.”

He can’t help the choked laugh that escapes him, “are we talking about the same Derek?”

“Hey, that’s my bro you’re dissing.”

“…your bro.” he’s never going to get used to this. Hales are supposed to be angry and impulsive and not clued in to pop culture and charming.

“Ugh,” she snags his sleeve and starts pulling him along, “just come on.”

She drags him all the way across campus to the library building, only letting go when he whines he doesn’t need a leash. He’s assuming she’s taking him to Derek, but he can’t picture him surrounded by books and scribbling down notes hastily. He has a hard time picturing Derek _reading_ at all. Cora doesn’t lead him around to one of the many desks and tables hidden in between rows and rows of books, instead she takes him around the main desk and into the door marked employees only.

What. Cora is going to murder him in the library, because there is no way Derek Hale works in a library. A _library_. It’s only logical.

Derek is shifting through the bin of returns when they round the small walkway. He’s hallucinating, he keeps waiting for the sting in his arm, but nope nothing. Just the soft bubbling of the coffee pot in the corner and Derek’s hands sliding over the book covers like he was making love to them.

 _Ok_. Whoa, Stiles breathes heavily through his nose; that was not a thought he’d ever have. Or want to have. And yet he keeps thinking, while staring obviously at Derek. Derek in a fucking sweater, again. One that fits just a little too snug and even though Derek hasn’t been an alpha for years, his bulk is still there, shaped nicely under the soft fabric.

Stiles clears his throat.

Cora gives him a weird look, which he can only give back a ‘what’cha looking at’ look back. He’s going to just go on and ignore the fast ticks in his heart. He doesn’t even know where this is coming from because the last time his heart started racing around Derek it wasn’t because of attraction. He’s blaming it on the library, books get him hot. That’s all.

Stiles knows that Derek knows he’s with Cora, but he still has the decency to look surprised when he looks up from the books. It’s still a shock not to see his eyes harden when he looks right at him. He even smiles softly at Stiles, like he has been lately and none of this is helping Stiles’s brain get back on track. He’s got no safe zone to look at so he settles for staring at the off angle name tag on Derek’s chest.

“Does Scott know you’re here?” it’s the softest tone Stiles has ever heard Derek use. And it makes him hate himself a little more for what he’s about to say.

Scott had agreed with him to keep the Hales out of it. Give them a chance to just be. But Stiles has always had a hard time with rules. There’s a pull in him, gentle and strong, gravitating him toward Derek. It’s never been there before and Stiles wants it, he wants to find out when the pull is too strong and yanks him to the end. He wants it more than anything he’s wanted in a long time.

“No.”

***

Derek’s standing dejectedly behind his front door when he swings it open.  An umbrella, one of those mini ones that can fit into the front pocket of his backpack, is dripping water onto Derek’s shoulders. He’s glaring away and Stiles can’t help but find it endearing now.

“Having a bad day, Derek?” he gets a darker glare for his cheek, but Derek doesn’t shove him into any walls. He keeps waiting for it; he’s been waiting for it all week.

Derek grunts and struts in past Stiles, shaking the water off his umbrella.

“You got them?” he asks, always right to the point.

And the point being the books. The ones heavy against his side. The ones that they were supposed to go over together, because Derek is more nosy than him.

Stiles had muttered, embarrassed, his theories on witchcraft being the cause of whatever was happening to him last week at the library, fully expecting Derek and Cora to huff at him just like everyone else and move on to something more real. Cora had just shrugged and chattered off about druids, but Derek, Derek looked at him like Stiles had lit his family on fire again. It made his heart thump uncomfortable. Derek had taken him aside and told him not to panic. And then he’d unleashed the hell hound of truth.

At least Stiles knew his theory wasn’t just a theory. It was just a little frightening to find out that everything about magic he knew was wrong. Witchcraft was actually much, _much_ darker than anything he could piece together. Derek had looked him right in the eyes and said that no one’s really survived a witch’s attack; it’s why there are no records of them. And anything that is out there is warped by survivor’s tortured and damaged minds.

He’d been going to the library after classes every day that week to research with Derek. It wasn’t going very well though, Derek didn’t have a lot of his family’s books and getting hands on a hunter’s bestiary would be hard. Allison’s didn’t have anything that even mentioned druid magic. And Scott’s trials of asking around neighboring packs didn’t help all that much. All it did was send them on edge, and start rumors of witchcraft floating around. It wasn’t like Stiles could tell Scott off though, because then he would have to tell him he was getting closer to answers. And then by default he would have to mention it was because of Derek and Cora. And he wasn’t supposed to be talking to Derek or Cora.

Scott keeps giving him knowing looks though, Stiles just pretends not to see them. As long as Scott keeps on pretending that he can’t smell Derek and Cora all over him, or the apartment, then they’ll be just fine.

It wasn’t until yesterday, when Derek asked Stiles if Deaton had any books on witches did Stiles remember the trunk full of forbidden books under his bed. He’d yelped loudly in the library, scaring a few other freshmen, before taking off with demands of Derek coming over tomorrow.

Of course, Stiles forgot to text Derek that morning and tell him to meet him at the library. Scott’s class got out early and he’ll be home any minute now.

“Uh,” Stiles glances out the open door skeptically, “right here,” he pats his heavy bag, “but, I thought we could go to the library?” maybe, if he asks Derek won’t hit him.

He’s expecting a body shove or a growl, but not the whine that comes forth. Derek even makes an ‘I don’t wanna’ face, scrunching up his nose and throwing his head back in incompliance.

“Stiles, why didn’t you text me that?”

It’s actually kind of adorable, the way Derek whines at him and pouts at the rain that is coming down in sheets.

“Sorry,” he pokes his head out the door to see if Scott is coming down the street yet, “it’s just Scott got out early and Allison’s gunna be home soon.” He offers a shoulder shrug as an end to his explanation.

Derek grumbles, pulls out his tiny umbrella and pops it open in Stiles face. He stands ridged, as if he’s thinking about bursting into a tantrum at any moment.

“…and, I kinda wanted to get coffee.”

“Stiles!”

“Oh come on,” Stiles gestures to his neck, where the lashes are crawling up toward his ear, “I think I deserve coffee.”

Derek’s pout melts into a half scowl, “no coffee in the library.”

Oh, he’ll bring it in to the library if he wants. He’s finding Derek’s really bad at standing his ground on things that don’t really matter, “ok,” Stiles shuffles around and throws his hood up, “I’ll drink it all before we get there.”

Derek stares at him.

“Dude, I promise.”

His pinched face appears and Stiles knows it’s because of the ‘dude’, but he doesn’t care.

In the full five minutes it takes to get Derek back out from his apartment, the rain has started falling even heavier and Stiles knows his hoodie is going to be soaked in seconds, but if he goes back in for an umbrella, Derek will never let them leave. So he braves the river falling from the sky for the both of them.

They’re only a few steps away from the apartment when a sudden dryness covers Stiles wet hoodie. Warmth is blazing along his side and he only gives Derek a side glance, who stares straight ahead like he’s not being nice. Like he hasn’t stepped closer into Stiles’s personal bubble, enough that every time they take a bigger step their arms brush. Since Derek’s having a bad day, he won’t mention it.

They come upon a coffee shop in no time, it’s not one of Stiles’s favorite ones, but that doesn’t matter right now. He just needs coffee and even though Derek will never admit it, Stiles knows he’s dying for an apple cider. So he gets a large one and shoves it into Derek’s empty hand before the werewolf can even protest. The softness in Derek’s eyes warms away any anxiety Stiles was feeling that morning.

They get to the library before Stiles’s coffee is even cool enough to drink and Derek frowns at him for a good while before giving in and letting Stiles in. He has his own drink after all and the rain is not letting up at all. Stiles promises not to spill anything on the books. Like he would anyway, books are just as important to Stiles. Just because he likes to fill them with highlighter doesn’t mean he wants to spill sugary heaven on them.

The back corner they’ve taken to occupying is empty, surprisingly. With the weather, Stiles knows all those outside studiers have to go somewhere. Apparently it’s not the library. They settle in and Derek moves their drinks to the middle of the table, far away from any books before settling down next to Stiles.

Digging out the books takes a bit of work, they are old and heavy with an ominous loom. Stiles gets the urge to throw them as far as he can whenever he touches them. His arm pulses more too, sending stinging waves through his veins, up his shoulder.  He sucks it up though and ignores the little glances Derek keeps sending his way.

The first book keeps whispering to Stiles, quiet murmurs of dark acts and malicious thoughts, it draws him in. Keeps a gentle pull on him like Derek does; only it speaks to the darkness in him. His tattoos are darkening with each page he turns, healing something the book is taking from him. A few hours go by with nothing. All Stiles knows is why Deaton didn’t want him looking in these books. They’re lined with gruesome stories, terrible sacrifices, blood and horror.

Their drinks are finished and Stiles is getting tired of the stinging. Shifting about only clears his head so many times. At least he has a decent research partner in Derek. Scott gets distracted too fast and ropes Stiles into video games or lacrosse practice. Isaac often doesn’t know what helps and what doesn’t and Allison doesn’t offer up any information until she’s concluded everything herself.

Derek doesn’t speak up as often as Stiles does when he comes across something of interest, but it’s fine because he’s good at deeming what is important enough to mention. He gets Stiles’s attention with soft touches or a low voice, slowly brings him out of his own focus. It’s easy to jump right back in that way.

So it’s a jolt when Derek snaps at him, “Stiles!”

His brows are furrowed and lips tight, he looks as if he’s going to puke.

“What?”

Derek’s throat bobs slowly, “your face,” his hand twitches with the thought of reaching out.

It’s dark enough from the storm that the windows reflect just the right amount of detail for Stiles to see himself in the glass. It’s a little horrifying what he sees, the person starting back at him isn’t him at all. His cheeks are hollowed in too aggressively, black veins darkening along his hairline, reaching in toward his nose. Eyes all blacked out, soulless. He’s pale grey, deathly looking, and the lashes on his neck standing out even more.

It’s the book, he can see it in the window, there are wispy smoke arms winding around his tattooed arm. It’s floating up from the pages and swirling around him, touching him, breathing into his lungs. If he looks hard enough, there seems to be someone standing behind him, caressing his face, his neck. He can’t feel the smoky hands.

“Do you see that?” it’s like talking through cotton. When he looks back at Derek, the werewolf is breathing hard through his nose, “Derek?”

“It smells like something’s rotting.”

 _It’s me,_ he doesn’t say. He just grips the book harder, it won’t let him go.

“Derek,” he sounds broken to his own ears, “the window,” it’ll hear him if he speaks to loud.

Derek ‘s frown melts into terror when he looks and he’s yanking the book from Stiles’s hands in seconds, throwing it against the back corner. Stiles feels something rip out of him, going with the book. It’s slimy and cold, the air rushes back into his lungs. He hadn’t realized he couldn’t breathe well. The book’s whispering loudly in the corner, angry, and it’s a little silly, for Derek to be flashing his eyes and baring his fangs at a book.

“You saw it….”

Derek’s just tense, “I think that’s enough research for now.”

When he looks back in the window, he’s normal, just same old Stiles. Honey eyes and messy hair. He feels weak though, tired. As if he hasn’t slept for weeks.

“Der-”

“Not here,” Derek cuts him off. He goes to the book and shoves it deep in Stiles bag, placing the others on top, “come on, there’s too many people around,” and he pulls Stiles up, slinging Stiles’s bag over his own shoulder.

But there’s no one around really, just a small study group on the other side of the library, and a girl watching them from the far bookshelf.

“Wait,” that girl, “Derek,” it’s her, she’s the same girl.

“Not _here_ ,” Derek growls in his ear and grips his arm tight.

The girl watches them leave with blank eyes and odd posture.

The heavy rain brings Stiles back from his trance a bit more and by the time they are shuffling up the steps to Derek’s apartment, he can think clearly.

Derek doesn’t even turn the lights on when they get in. He half runs into the shadowed hallway, yanks open the closet door and pulls a thick trunk out. Stiles’s bag gets tossed in, books still inside. Derek slams the lid closed and reaches around for something Stiles can’t see. He hears a click and Derek’s shoving the trunk back into the closet, firmly closing the doors.

Their breathing is heavy in the silence.

“They’re testing you.”

“What?” Stiles is dripping wet, freezing and achy and _so_ confused.

“The witc-”

“-so it _is_ a witch.” Stiles’s teeth are chattering with more than just the cold. Derek stares at him like he’s dead, “Derek.”

“No, I think….I think it’s a coven of them.”

“Ok,”

“Stiles,” Derek’s never looked more lost. Not even when the Alpha pack came rolling into town, “there’s a reason no one knows witchcraft is real.”

“I know. We’ve been over this.”

“No,” Derek heaves his body onto the couch, “you don’t understand. Covens, they’re rare. Witches are…not exactly sane. They can be stronger in groups, but most of them don’t know how to work with a team.”

“Ok, got it. Not only are we dealing with crazies, but smart crazies.”

“ _We’re_ dealing with desperation.”

His eyes roll to the ceiling all on their own, “how do you know all this?” he’s used to Derek knowing nothing, about everything.

Derek blows right past his question, “they’re targeting you.”

“Why?”

“There’s….” but Derek gets that guilty look on his face.

“Spit it out!”

“There’s a reason your tattoo’s change. Why it’s hard for you to control your spark.”

Stiles doesn’t understand what Derek is talking about, or how Derek even knows anything about his spark. He hasn’t been exactly in a sharing mood in the past week since he’s reconnected with the Hales. Only Scott is, and Deaton _was_ , aware that Stiles couldn’t focus well on his magic. It’s why he stopped studying after Deaton was killed.

“You’re not a druid, Stiles.”

“I’m a wizard?” he smirks. He knows Derek gets that one, but he doesn’t smile.

“A witch actually.”

“How do you know?”

“That mark, if you were anything but, you’d be dead by now.”

It’s his magic keeping him alive, Stiles is already aware of that. How that makes him a witch though, he doesn’t get.

“Ok, and are you ever going to tell me how you are suddenly Mr. Answers, because you knowing this is probably more freaky than anything that’s happened today.”

And _there’s_ the look Stiles was going for. He’s missed Derek’s bitch face. There’s nothing really more satisfying then Derek telling Stiles how much of a little shit he is through his eyes. It’s a weird thing to be happy about.

“My parents dealt with a coven.” He didn’t offer any more than that.

“That’s it? That doesn’t explain anything.” He’s just getting angry now and he feels like he’s back in high school, _this_ close to answers, but something’s always standing in his way. Or in most cases, Derek, it’s always Derek standing.

“You’ll be safe for now, with your pack.”

“Yeah, I feel so safe with a cruse crawling its way to my brain.”

“It’s just a mark.”

“Yeah, for a target! Thanks, by the way, for telling me that but not giving me a reason.”

Derek’s lips thin out.

“You’re still terrible at communication.” He’s too angry to really say anymore. He doesn’t even care that his wallet and tablet are in the bag Derek locked away, he just doesn’t want to look at him anymore.

The bang of the door is loud and Stiles hopes it’s radiating in the silence that Derek is no doubt sitting in.

He gets all the way home before he realizes his keys are in his bag too. A well-aimed kick at the offending piece of wood doesn’t do anything for him though. He just slides down to sit and wait for someone to wander home from class, ignoring the buzzing his phone is doing in his pocket.

He’ll except Derek’s apology in the form of real information.

***

On Monday his bag is returned to him with everything except the books. But there’s a piece of paper with Derek’s neat handwriting, _counter curse,_ and a list of things Stiles’s needs to successfully rid the lashes. It doesn’t look that hard, basic druid herbs, he has everything already. It only takes him half an hour to get everything mixed into a pleasant minty green liquid. It’s the last two things that give away a darker tone, blood of the inflected and-

“Ugh, really? How am I supposed to get that?”

 _Fingernail of the castor_. If he’s being targeted, then walking up to one of them and yanking off a nail isn’t going to work. Especially since Derek kept making it seem like Stiles is a threat to them. He grits out profanities at Derek’s un-present self and looks around in his bag. He’s not really expecting to find a fingernail, but that’s exactly what he _does_ find. A plastic bag with a bloody, manicured fingernail in it.

He doesn’t know if he should be touched that Derek went hunting down a witch for him, grossed out, or _worried_ that Derek went hunting down a witch for him.

“Stupid wolf, stupid covens, stupid magic-”

“Stiles?” Isaac pokes his head over the kitchen bar, “you ok?”

“Fine,” Stiles waves him off and drops the nail into the concoction, watches it turn a nasty green, “just doing some chemistry.”

Isaac snorts but goes back to cooking whatever amazing dinner he’s making. Stiles’s stomach growls loudly, but he’s betting the potion will work better if he’s got an empty stomach. When in doubt, assume everything works like alcohol.

It takes him longer then he’ll admit to down it, but the thought of dealing with blinding pain somehow seems more appealing then drinking the vomit smelling potion. At least it’s a small amount, barely more than a shot. And the nail seemed to melt down in the liquid, if he had to swallow a whole nail, then _no_. He’ll chance getting his brain fried. He takes a deep breath and knocks it back.

A shiver runs through his body and he has to force himself to keep the potion down. Nothing changes after his stomach settles, the lashes are still there. But he’s betting that it will take a bit, it took three whole days for the curse to even show, why _wouldn’t_ it take as long to disappear?

He grudgingly texts Derek a _thanks_ after dinner. He’s settled on being touched, but still pissed that Derek is still such an info hog.

He’s just climbing out of the shower and inspecting the slowly receding lashes on his arm when a muffled knock floats up from the vents. Scott’s heavy strut goes to the door and there’s a growl the moment it’s open. No doubt it’s Derek behind the door. Stiles sighs, his little pretending he’s not going against Scott’s wishes game is over now.

They are arguing when Stiles manages to pull on some sweats and sneak into the living room. Cora is nestled in between the pack on the couch, all of them snickering.

“-just go behind my back-”

“-He asked for help, I’m not-”

“- you don’t even like him-”

“Whoa,” Stiles says, “rude, Scotty. I think new Derek likes me more than old Derek.”

Cora gives a smartass, “mmhmm.”

“Stiles,” Scott starts, but _no_. Just no, Stiles is not having unnecessary fights.

“Dude, you knew I was talking to him. Like you couldn’t smell him all over me, the apartment! You can’t really be mad about this.” He ignores the blush that covers Derek’s cheeks.

“Yeah,” Allison pips up and Stiles has never seen Scott glare so hard at Allison before, “why _are_ you upset by this?”

Scott and Derek will always have some resistance between them, no matter how much they learn to get along. It’s just who they are. Scott is willing to jump in and save everyone while Derek is always desperate just to stay alive. It’s one of the reasons why they decided as a pack not to involve Derek or Cora in whatever came upon them.

But things are different and Stiles isn’t going to feel bad, not when Cora’s the one who sought him out. When Derek offered up the help. Scott’s not even upset at Derek. He’s upset at himself. Stiles gets it, he does. Knowing what Derek’s been through, no one would want to be the person that brings him back into the same chaos that fucked over his life.

But Derek choose. He could’ve just ignored Stiles, he has before. Because even the new Derek Hale doesn’t just help others. Not like Scott would, just to do the right thing. Derek helps people he cares about. Stiles will take that because, yes Derek is still insanely secretive and he’s still grumpy and guilt ridden.  But under all that is a Derek who used to be like Scott, who is too scared to reach out anymore.

Stiles doesn’t know why it took him so long to see it.

“It’s his choice, Scott.” Stiles knows the fights has gone out of him, “besides, look. He healed me.” The lashes have receded to his elbow now and are less red looking by the minute.

Derek’s eyebrows raise in surprise, which doesn’t comfort Stiles at all.

“Ok, why are you so shocked at that?”

Derek hunches in on himself and he looks so small in the doorway, “uh, I wasn’t sure I translated it right.” He’s just going to wait, because waiting for Derek to continue is the only way to get him too, “there might have been an ingredient difference between healing it or making it worse.”

“How much worse?” Scott asks, shoving Isaac over on the couch with his shoulder and trying not to pout.

Cora smirks, “like dead worse.”

“What!” Stiles appreciates his pack getting mad for him, but really he can’t do anything other than laugh. It’s not funny, not at all, but isn’t that what makes things funny anyway?

“Well,” he pads over to Derek and slaps him on the back, “good job big guy. I’m not dead.”

Derek looks a little horrified under the shy smile he gives Stiles, but whatever. No harm no foul. Stiles takes the moment of relief to slip his arms around Derek’s waist in a quick hug.

“Thanks,” he whispers, even though every wolf can hear him, “I was panicking for a while there.”

Derek’s sliding his big arms around Stiles before he can scamper away from embarrassment. He pushes his face into Stiles’s shoulder and mouths a ‘you’re welcome’ against his bare skin.

They part with small awkward coughs and Stiles retreats into his room.

He knows Derek stays though; he can hear his laugh every so often. It’s masked by Cora’s and the packs, but it’s there. Soft and low.

 

_

Thanks for reading you guys! I think I'm going to make this longer than four chapters. It's kind of spiraling into something else. Comments are always appreciated! :)


	3. Beginnings

 

 

The thing with Scott knowing about the sneaky hang outs with the Hales is that Derek no longer has an excuse to stay away. Stiles never thought he really had a problem with that though; Derek still acts as if being in the same room with Stiles is lowering his IQ. Of course, Stiles takes that to a higher level of offense now that he knows Derek actually has a pretty high IQ to lower. So it’s a little surprising when Derek starts showing up at their apartment all the time; if he’s not working at the library or in class, he’s slouching on their couch, stealing their food, using their shower (which _fuck_ , Stiles walked in that one time and they have no shower curtain ok, they just _don’t_ , there are reasons, stupid reasons, but they exist.)

Granted, Stiles had already been spending large amounts of his time with Derek, it just seemed so much more now. Cora pointed out to him on the way to their Psych final that it’s because he’s seeing Derek do domestic things. Like cooking, he’s basically over taken the kitchen and Stiles doesn’t like it when the first thing he sees in the morning is a scantily clad hottie McHot werewolf cooking him eggs and bacon. Ok, that’s a lie, he likes it too much and Cora’s snickering just makes it worse.

Stiles just wants to know why Derek is staying the night at their apartment nearly every night. Every time he asks though Derek just flushes a deep red and buries deeper into whatever book is shoved in front of his face. Which is another thing Stiles can’t really take, Derek reading, all the time. For _fun_. In the coziest spots in the apartment that _used_ to be Stiles’s cozy reading places, but now he has to fight Derek for them. Which is super hard to do when Derek’s all cozy up-ed in sweaters, coffee wafting in his face, and that stupid content look in his eyes. It’s the _worst_. It’s not fair; he’s going to die a very slow death because of this.

Scott pointed out that one can’t die of horny-ness. At least Derek hadn’t been around to hear that one. But Cora had, because Cora had up and started hanging around the apartment just as much as Derek. Stiles has never caught her in the shower though, or stealing his favorite reading places.

The _point_ is that Stiles had forgotten how difficult it is to keep control of his feelings and every other hormone action. He’d gotten used to Isaac and Scott bitching at him and it’s never really been directed at anyone in the pack, every so often Lydia, when she’s running around in a new short skirt, but Stiles has seen Scott ogle her before so it’s forgivable. Now with Derek basking in Stiles’s home base, it’s so much harder for him to relax. At least in public Derek could pass off any embarrassing scents as something else, but not here in the apartment. It’s much easier for him to tell what it’s directed at. So Stiles has taken to spending a lot of time in his room. Not that it really stops Derek from barging in and asking questions, poking around his personal space.

It’s the last Friday of school before winter break and he’s freezing his nads off by the time he gets back to the apartment from class. Unsurprisingly, Derek is sitting on the couch with a full frown on and glaring hard at a black TV screen.

“Good show?” Stiles snickers, sliding his feet out of his beat up sneakers. Pointedly not looking at Derek for longer than two seconds. He’s been moping around the apartment lately and a moping Derek is the last straw for Stiles.

“I need to talk to you.”

Stiles isn’t sure why Derek’s gone all cryptic on him, but it’s just like every other weekend so he goes about throwing his bag on the floor and pads around the bar counter separating the kitchen and living room. He’s starving and there’s a can of tomato soup and a grilled cheese with his name on it.

“Ok, bud, so talk,” he starts pulling out the bread and butter and cheese, “want a grilled cheese sandwich? I make the best kind-”

“-I’ve been lying to you.” Derek interrupts. He’s still starting at the TV like it murdered someone. Or rather, he murdered someone, but Stiles doubts lying is equivalent to murder. Unless it’s about murder. Which, shit, if Derek killed someone then there is nothing cute about the way he is moping. _Ok_ , seventy percent still cute.

“About what? How much you like my cooking? I knew Scott was lying about that stew being good last week.” He’s just going to deflect this as much as possible. Besides it could be the least life threatening secret ever, Derek feels bad about everything, including using Stiles’s towels . He always gives Stiles his, ' _my family is dead because of me face_ ’, for it too.

“Stiles.” There’s the normal lull that only Cora and Isaac can understand. Stiles only half gets it, just chalking it up as part of ‘Derek speak’, “no, you’re cooking’s fine. It’s about the coven.”

It catches him completely off guard. Stiles can feel the anger rising already, but it’s quickly followed by guilt, everyone’s always blaming Derek. He stares hard at the frying pan on the stove. He needs to turn the flame on but his arms aren’t moving.

“There’s not really a coven is there?” he hopes he is wrong; he doesn’t want to think Derek is that much of a dick to string him along. Just enough of one to use up all his printer paper and not replace it.

“No…there is, the coven’s real.”

“Ok,” Stiles draws out the word and he’s losing his anger to confusion.

Derek finally shifts around on the couch and when Stiles turns around to look at him, Derek’s sitting with his leg pulled up and facing Stiles.

“The coven’s after you because you’re a witch.”

“Yeah Derek,” relief is flooding through Stiles, “I know, we already talked about this. Like a month ago, did you hit your head? Wait, can werewolves get amnesia?”

Derek is staring at him with a reserved smirk and shakes his head to rid it, “no. Stiles-I don’t know. That’s not the point,” he sighs in frustration, “I _mean_ I’ve been lying to you about everything I know.”

“Ok,” Stiles abandons his meal and slips down next to Derek on the couch, “so what do you know?”

“Everything.”

Stiles smirks, “really, you know everything in the entire universe. Aren’t we a little-”

“Stiles. I’m serious. I wasn’t supposed to tell you, ever. Your Mom never wanted you to know.”

His mom. A whole new bundle of anxiety shoots up his throat, “what.”

Derek’s sigh rolls through his shoulders and his fingers card his hair into a mess, “your Mother was a witch.”

“What.”

“She was running from her coven, the one that my parents dealt with.”

“ _What_.”

Derek takes a deep breath and gives Stiles his ‘please don’t hate me face’. It’s a face Derek has been giving him a lot, but mostly due to using up all his shampoo or eating all his Oreos. It takes a while for Derek to get through everything and there’s a shouting match in the middle of it and Stiles goes from shock to excitement to blinding anger in the longest emotional rollercoaster he’s ever been on. When Derek’s done, he doesn’t know what do, what to think.

Apparently, his Mother had been part of a coven that grew too violent and she wanted out when she became pregnant. She’d gone to the Hales for help because, for some unknown reason to Derek, witches are terrified of werewolves. That didn’t sit well with the coven, because his Mother was something called a Magik, a true witch, one who uses nature based spells. And then Derek had launched into a ten minute explanation of _that_. When basically it’s that a Magik is born with a magic spark that is cradled into a flame. Magik’s, (Magiki?) are even rarer than witches, their magic being the most pure form and if their spark is brought up correctly, a Magik’s power is the most powerful kind of magic out there. Those that call themselves witches are really just druids with an extra oomph. Witches also are not born with a spark, any emissary or even human can become a witch. His Mother had been threatened with death if she left the coven for that reason. She did anyway and they came after her, looking to drain her powers and absorb it for themselves.

The Hale pack had gotten rid of the coven based on an agreement that Claudia would banish her powers, so that no more trouble from other witches would fall upon Beacon Hills. But then Stiles had been born with the spark and Deaton got involved. Since the coven hadn’t known that Claudia had been pregnant, no one knew about the potential of another Magik. Talia had only agreed to let Stiles be because a Magik’s power didn’t spark until early adulthood. But Claudia demanded another agreement from the Hale pack, that when Stiles did start to show his spark, the Hale’s would be his protectors. Derek mumbled through that part, something about in the dark ages, a Magik often was part of a werewolf pack and a wolf within the pack was usually assigned as the witch’s guardian. Technically, Talia had sworn in Stiles as part of their pack and someone would take up guardian duties later on. Deaton, being the only magic user in town had offered to keep an eye out for signs of Stiles’s spark and agreed to help send Stiles down the right path when the time came.

But then everyone got older and the fire happened and Deaton swore Derek into never speaking of this to Stiles and to just forget about him. It would be too dangerous without a pack to take on the responsibility of a Magik. It shed some light on why Deaton had been so hesitant to ignite Stiles’s spark unless he had too. It’s also shedding light on why a coven is sniffing around. Obviously word got out that there might be a Magik in Beacon Hills and all the weird things that had been happening since summer suddenly seemed to make more sense. After the fox demon, everything that came after them had gravitated toward Stiles and it had taken some sort of magic to nearly get rid of all of them.

Now, after so many failures, the coven had come rolling in to do the job itself.

Derek’s giving him that stupid concerned look that gives Stiles warm butterflies. Stiles wants to be mad, he wants to be furious that Derek didn’t just fess up, because it’s not like Deaton could chew him out from his grave. And it would have been nice to know that he’s turning into a rare supernatural being that everyone wants to murder for his powers. But he’s not mad, not even a little tiny bit, he’s just empty. It’s a lot of information to take in and Scott will be back soon and he’s still hungry. They’ll have to have this talk all over again with Scott and possibly his Dad. Not that he ever gave any signs that he knew his own wife had been a witch.

“Stiles.” Derek touches his knee and Stiles takes a breath in.

He didn’t realize he hadn’t been breathing.

“Ok.” He says.

“Ok?”

Stiles shrugs, “what else am I supposed to say? This is kind of life alternating information. It’s not like I can resist this. It’s already happening.”

Derek’s face hardens into an expression Stiles hasn’t seen since Scott first got bit and his hand tightens on Stiles’s knee, “nothing will happen to you.”

Right, because the whole marking him as a target didn’t happen last month.

“They already know that I am a Magik or whatever, it’s why that girl marked me, by the way has anyone seen her? She’s just off and disappeared.”

Derek swallows thickly ans admits, “I think they want to steal your power.”

“Oh, right and the only way that happens is if….”

“Is if you die.” Oh. Great. Awesome. Best freshman year by far.

“Ok.” Stiles says.

Derek’s all up in his space suddenly and Stiles has learned to just take Derek’s sometimes bruising affection, “you’re part of a pack. You’re safe. They won’t get to you.”

Right, well there are still ways to kill off a pack of werewolves, especially when half of the werewolves in the pack are on the other side of the country. Derek hadn’t said werewolves are resistant to magic, which they’re not, even if they are magic themselves. Stiles takes a breath and rests his chin on Derek’s shoulder, fighting back the panic in his stomach.

Derek must smell it on him because his arms tighten around his middle and he’s nuzzling down into Stiles’s throat.

“We have to tell Scott,” Stiles gets out after a bit, his legs are getting numb but Derek’s still not letting go. He just nods against Stiles’s pulse, “he’ll want to assign me a guardian, or….whatever.” It feels cheesy, talking about having a personal bodyguard.

Derek shoots back like a rocket and is gripping Stiles’s shoulders tightly, staring firmly into his eyes,

“I’m your guardian.” He says in a hard voice and then he’s up and finishing Stiles’s forgotten soup and grilled cheese in the kitchen. It doesn’t accrue to Stiles until after he’s gone to bed that Talia had probably assigned Derek to be Stiles’s guardian a long time ago. He doesn’t know if he feels safe or regret about it. He just loses sleep over it.

**

He doesn't see Derek for a whole week. Any text between them is just short and instigated by Stiles. It sets a low anger in his stomach, gnawing under all other thoughts. It's not really fair of Derek to dump him with his apparent endgame and then hide. Especially when he was just promising he'd watch over Stiles.

Scott's been hovering non-stop since Stiles told him. It makes it hard for Stiles to hunt around for any kind of info that will help him maintain his spark. They keep doing Call of Duty marathons, it's cutting into his studies too.

Scott insisted that he be Stiles guardian, but something feels off about. Stiles can still feel a panic in his chest, one that is gone when Derek's just in the same building as him. It's a bond, Stiles knows it. For whatever reason, his magic felt the need to bond to Derek instead. Stiles tries to tell Scott, but he just ignores him and follows Stiles to all his classes anyway. The weekend ends up being a relief and a stresser. He's got nothing to distract him from the absences of Derek and the bond in his viens keeps pulsing hard, as if it's calling out. It gives him a headache and he hides in his room for most of Saturday. It's lonely and stuffy and only adds to Stiles's anger and complete uselessness bubble.

he lays in bed for a bit after lunch, trying to nap away his headache. He doesn't fall asleep, he just starts at his phone, willing Derek to text him.

Eventually he slides down on the floor behind his bed. There's a few boxes hiding from Deaton there and if he can't sleep, he might as well get a jump on rekindling his spark.  He pulls out the large box from underneath the boxframe. If he can’t learn anything new yet, he might as well do what he knows. His basic magic books are collecting dust and Stiles takes out everyone, letting his touch recall the information. It's like flicking a switch. For a few months Stiles completely blocked out all magic but protection charms. Now his mind is clearing with reminders, he can feel a steady warmth in the pit of his stomach, one that was stronger and consistent in high school. He pulls out a small wax candle, a lighter, and a few rolled up scrolls. At the bottom of the box is a leather bound book, plain and worn. He pauses, he's never seen it before. It feels fragile in his hands and he sets it aside carefully, ignoring his curiosity. He should really start up his exercises first.

Reaching for the lighter and candle, Stiles sparks a flame and stares blankly at it. “Use it to learn control,” Deaton had told him the first day on his ‘spark’ training. It’s been awhile, almost half a year since Stiles has done this and the moment he closes his eyes he wishes he hadn’t stopped. He can feel his control is a bit wilder, aching to be set free. Holding the candle in one hand, he hovers his other of the flame, high enough to not feel the tiny warmth from it. Breathing deep, he waits for the flame’s warmth to reach his hand. When it gets too hot, a small pin prick in his palm, he brings it back, tries to calm the energy coursing through him. When he can hold the flame at a set temperature for longer than a minute, he opens his eyes. The flame is too large for the candle, it looks a little funny. Wax drips off the top, but just floats around in little bubbles above Stiles's hand. He’s not new to this. It grows and shrinks with his breathing and Stiles feels a stab of stupidity. Deaton had always said druids couldn’t do even half of this. In fact, thinking back on all his lessons, it had strain far from the path of an emissary. Anger flares in him and the flame grows a little too much. It engulfs his hands and burns his soft skin. The candle falls to the floor with a loud thud, whole, new and flameless.

Stiles hisses and glares down at his lap, hands red and boiling. His tattoos flicker and darken to a deep red. The pain recedes instantly. He’s always been good at healing spells. It’s so natural to him he doesn’t even need to think about the actual incantation any more, not with it etched into his skin. Watching his ink fade away the burns and pain, he wills his mind to think of nothing. Not of books. Of his mom. Of Derek.

There’s a knock at his door bringing him back some time later and he just catches the end of Scott’s soft tenor, asking about lunch. He’s not very hungry so he doesn’t say anything. Scott's footsteps fade back into the apartment a moment later. His skin is back to its normal self and his tattoos only have a hint of red in them. He puts the candle back in the box and picks up the mysterious book. He turns it over and over, the leather soft and cool under his touch. When he opens it, a folded up paper falls out. In Deaton’s neat scrawl is another ball of unnamable emotion.

_Your mother would want you to have this._

It only takes a few page flips for him to know. It’s a spell book, real spells, for real magic. There’s even a few he knows already and Stiles feels a gush of affection rise in his chest for Deaton. The man had been teaching him real magic all along, just under the disguise of a druid. Probably a way to keep Stiles safe until the right time. He's not angry anymore, he can't even muster any. He just wants things to settle, for once. He just wants Derek back in his apartment, taking up all the hot water and annoying Stiles with his everything. He wipes at the sudden wetness in his eyes and reaches for his phone.

_-Come back stupid._

He doesn’t get a buzz back until dinner is over and he’s laughing over a bowel of rocky road ice-cream with Scott and Isaac.

_-Ok._

**

Stiles has one of _those_ dreams that night. Of hands and a deep voice he still can’t forget. He wakes in the dark, cold and unable to move. Fear racks down his body and even though he knows he’s alone, he can’t help but shake. His lamps flicker a few times until they just click on. He’s surprised he can even do any magic right now, but the light gives a small comfort.

There’s no one in his room, just like he knew there wouldn’t be.

There’s no one to trap him.

To use him.

It takes him a few minutes to uncurl and another to sit up and get his breathing under control. Straining his ears, he can hear Scott’s snores through the wall behind him. It’s another comfort and he feels embarrassed at the fact that all he wants to do is go curl up in Scott’s bed. He pulls on a hoodie when he gets the feeling back in his legs. The chill in his chest won’t go away for a while, but he can try to will it away faster with false warmth. He’s still shaking and he needs to look for bruises he knows are not there. He won’t be able to go back to sleep without checking. Besides, his bladder is screaming at him for putting off the bathroom before bed.

His door knob is cold and there’s an extra weight to the door that sets a fear strike in Stiles’s chest just as he yanks it open. The last thing he’s expecting is for Derek to tumble backwards and snap awake with burning blue eyes, claws out and fangs glistening. He wants to be annoyed, but all that escapes him is a small chuckle.

“Put the claws away bright eyes, it’s just me.”

Derek lets out an impossibly cute grunt, one more of embarrassment then annoyance and is curling in on himself, leaning out of Stiles’s way. Stiles half expects Derek to follow him into the bathroom, but he doesn’t. Which is just fine cause that would be a whole lot of awkwardness that Stiles doesn’t need.

He checks his thighs and torso for bruising, flushing with embarrassment to himself. He knows his mind won't rest if he doesn't though, that the incubus will be lingering in all shadows. It takes him a little while to clam his breathing too and ignores the itch to glance in the mirror. Nothing ever comes good of mirrors this early, not after a nightmare, not for Stiles. He finishes up and stumbles back into the hallway.

Derek is leaning against the wall just next to the door when Stiles comes out. They stare at each other in the dark hallway.

Stiles hopes the awkwardness in his throat isn't in Derek's too. But the silence is dragging on too long, even for Derek, who looks as if the front door is the only option right now. Stiles sighs.

“Come on,” Stiles nudges past Derek, opening their hall closet and digging out an extra pillow and blanket, “at least sleep on the couch, stupid wolf.”

Derek glares at him as he nestles down onto the worn cushions and pulls the blanket up to his chin. It ruins all heat from his glower and it eases Stiles’s shakes. He goes back to bed with a small smile and falls asleep with ease, his bond finally settling back.

He wakes before sunrise and struggles to get up. He’s got an English final to get too though and as much as Stiles hates that class, he’ll hate himself more if he lets his GPA drop.The apartment is still with sleep and Stiles is extra quiet in the kitchen, making sure the timer is off on the coffee pot. He can see Derek’s mass on the couch, just a dark lump under the blanket. His bare feet pale and the only indicator that there’s a person under there in the darkness. Stiles stares at him as he waits for the coffee.

He watches Derek sleep through his cup of coffee, only moving to wash it out when the light seeps in through the blinds and Derek grunts out something, rolling up from the ugly couch. They head tilt a ‘hey’ at each other as Derek passes down the hall for the bathroom and Stiles goes about shoving his wallet into his back pocket. Shrugging on a zip-up, Stiles heaves his backpack over his shoulder and doesn’t wait for Derek to come back out, but as he closes the door he hears a soft ‘bye Stiles’ float through the crack. It has him smiling all the way to his English final.

It’s an easy test, just a few questions and a three page essay. It makes Stiles’s hand cramp though and he keeps checking for lashes that have faded for a while now. His tattoos are a tint redder though, trying to heal away the stiffness and aches of old injuries. He flexes his hand as his professor collects the tests, it may be time for a few new tattoos. He can get them needled in during break.

He’s not surprised to see Derek leaning against the wall when he steps out, in fact his body relaxes into itself and Stiles didn’t even realize he had been tense. There’s a blip in his heart at the soft smile on Derek’s face as he nears.

“Hey, Scott nearly had an asthem attack when he woke up with you gone,” Derek smirks, reaching out and taking Stiles’s bag off his shoulder to sling it over his own. Which _hey_ , Stiles can carry his own shit. If he wanted someone to carry his things, he’d find a boyfriend…which he is suddenly aware that people are glancing at him and Derek, probably thinking that they are. Boyfriends. Together, being boyfriend-y. Which Derek is _not_ and Stiles should really stop thinking about how great it would be.

“I'm allowed to leave by myself.” Stiles mutters, letting Derek open the door for him.

"Yes, you are, but there's a coven out for you." Derek snips back, there's no heat though.

"All the more reason."

Derek bumps him. A comfortable silence falling over them.

They step out into the sunlight and the cold, drifting towards each other for warmth. Stiles always forgets his jacket in the mornings. Derek’s eyeing him like he’s about to shrug off his own leather jacket and wrap it all warm and cozy around Stiles’s shoulders, but thankfully he’s stopped by a scream up a head.

Wait...

They both shake a bit out of their thoughts. The screaming is still happening and there’s a rush of people up ahead. Stiles lets Derek push his way through the growing crowd and he stops Stiles from sprinting out when they get to the front, his arm a heavy weight on Stiles’s chest.

There’s a body in the middle of the four-way stop sign heading to the library. It’s a girl, skinny and only in her underwear. Her stomach is cut open, organs pulled out and arranged over her hips in a way that looks random to most people. Stiles can see a clear intent though, even from this distance. The girl’s blood is pooled in a perfect circle under her and there is a magic circle drawn in white chalk, corner to corner on the intersection. There’s four jars, north, south, east, and west on the edges of the circle. Stiles swears he can see eyes floating in the dark liquid. It’s clearly the coven, but for whatever reason Stiles doesn’t know. Killing a random girl doesn’t make any sense. Not unless she’s a-

“-sacrifice” Derek mumbles to him.

But for what? What power are they gaining from this? Stiles feels bile raising up his throat the longer he looks at the dead girl. There’s a large crowd now on all corners, professors keeping students back and Stiles can hear the faint call of police in the air. It’s mingled with the creaking of the trees. What? Stiles glances around to the forest, there’s no wind today. Not even a breeze. But the trees are creaking, louder the longer Stiles stares. His heart starts pounding, there will be whispering any moment now. Just like always. The creaking is louder and all other sound starts to fade. Just as the first soft voice fills his ears, there’s a tug on his wrist.

“Stiles?” Derek’s pushed close to him, hand gripping his own tight.

Stiles shakes away the hallucination, “sorry.” Derek doesn’t say anything.

The police have arrived and are having a hard time getting people to leave. It'll be all over campus by the end of lunch. Derek's urging him to go as they start to move the body and a shine on the girl’s ears catches Stiles’s eye. Large silver gages.

_Fuck._

_"Fuck."_ Stiles backs up into Derek's bulk. Stiles needs to leave, _right now_.

"What?"

Glancing around at the mostly terrified crowd, Stiles snags Derek's wrist and pulls him back toward his English class, "it's her. The witch that did the _thing_ ," he ungracefully waves his hand around at his own arm.

Derek's eyes flash and he glances back at the ever growing crowd. There's whispering in the woods again, slow and untouchable. Stiles knows it's real, by the force of Derek whipping around to stare into the trees.

"You can hear it?" Stiles's voice so horse he can barely speak. His throat is dry with fear. They stare into the trees, looking for anything. The trees look sick, less color.

Derek doesn't saying anything, just stares for awhile into the darkness of the forest. With a burst of determination, he grabs Stiles's wrist and drags him away. Something's clicked in his head and Stiles isn't sure he wants to know. Not when whispering trees and dead witches are what triggers it. Stiles tries not to let his panic rise up his throat. He tries to focus on the warmth of Derek's hand over his wrist all the way back to the apartment.

 

 **

Derek doesn’t say anything to Stiles, just sits him down and starts cooking up soup. The trees whispered the whole way back and even in the safety of pack territory, a faint hum floats through the walls. The silence of the apartment rings and rings and Stiles has to dig his fingers into his thighs to keep from falling into memories.

The lamp in the corner is reminding him of Peter for some reason.

“What about him?” Derek’s voice is startling and Stiles jerks bruises into his thighs.

“Who?”

“Peter, you said his name.” Right. He’s tittering on the edge more than he thought.

“You kept saying his name too, before.” During his freak out.

“Yeah, he tried to take Scott’s alpha powers.”

“I know.”

“He’s dead.” Stiles says coldly. Peter’s always been a weird subject. He never knows if Derek is going to get upset or agree with him.

“I know.” Derek whispers from the kitchen.

“A lot of people are dead.”

 “You’re not going to die Stiles,” Derek shuffles over with a mug and cups it in Stiles’s hands.

That’s not why he said it, but he can’t deny it either. So he lets Derek lean against him and has his soup. They watch whatever game is on and don’t talk about anything.

Scott and Isaac burst through the door not long after, both of them out of breath and eyes wide. They zone in on him and Derek and spurt out talking at once.

“-did you see-”

“-the dead girl is-”

Derek rises to them, talking softly and agreeing. Stiles can’t focus on anything but the rush of voices coming from the doorway. They call to him. Call him away from safety. And he wants to go. Something in his veins pushes him to go, to need. He doesn’t move at all though. He just shakes on the couch and ignores the glances of worry from the three werewolves. He gets snippets of their conversation, but the voices are stuck in his head, even after Isaac closes the door.

“-we have to do something,”

Peter's eyes boring into his own from the window.

“-getting worse-”

His torso aching with bruises not there.

“-someone’s _dead_.-”

Scott lying on the road, dying.

"-deal with this straight on-"

Screaming, there's so much screaming.

"Stiles?"

His eyes are wet, but he's so tired he can't even be embarrassed.

**

When Allison gets home Scott drags them over to the local police department. They walk, it's only a short distance from campus and Derek and Scott seem to think the best thing for Stiles is to get away from campus. But the voices come out of nowhere from an patch of forest large enough.

Stiles isn’t really sure what they can get done as a group other than possibly get arrested themselves for looking like a gang of college nerds planning to steal answers to fall term finals. The girls body isn't even at the police department and that's really what Stiles needs to see. If there are any lingering magic marks left on the body. But Scott seems to think the police report is more important, so they huddle close and move quick down streets.

As a group, they are rather distracting, between Derek’s everything and Allison’s dimples, Issac's big eyes and Scott’s adorableness, they can probably seduce at least half of the deputies. Long enough anyway to let Stiles slip into the back and shuffle through some files.

And that’s kind of what happens, except Stiles gets about five seconds in the sheriff’s office before the door is creaking open and he has to dive into the smallest closet ever.He leaves the door open a crack and tries not to breathe too loud. The local sheriff looks tired in the same way his Dad always does and it tugs at his heart.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” he says to someone, a deputy probably.

“There’s no trace of a break in.” a woman says.

Stiles shifts to get a look at her, but he can’t without drawing attention to himself. There’s no point though, they put down a few things on a desk and are back out the room before Stiles can take another breath. He pops back out, only knocking over a trashcan in the process and scrambling at the desk. It’s just the beginnings of paper work, but photos of the dead girl are in the folder, along with notes from on scene and information about the victim.

Her name is Emily.

She’s 19.

An orphan.

Other than hair color and height, Stiles doesn’t get anything useful out of it. He does snap pics with his phone though, just in case his rushed mind missed something. He’s back out into the waiting area with an ungracefully slip through the door. Scott is still chatting to the front desk officer and Derek looks as if he’s about to punch someone in the gut. Stiles tries to come into the group as naturally as possible.

“Hey guys,” and trips over the bench, stumbling into Isaac and Allison. It makes a loud rucks and a few heads pop out of rooms, most glaring in their direction.

“Ok,” Allison stabilizes him, “I think we should go, Scott stop trying to pick up cops.” And she drags Stiles out the door.

The three wolves follow quickly enough, Scott blushing and Derek glaring. Isaac anxiously shouting at them.

“So, find anything?”

“No,” Stiles snorts, “nothing important anyway. We need the body.”

And maybe a blood sample that Stiles can do some magic on.

“Well we can’t do that.” Scott says.

“Why, we just snuck into the police department, I think sneaking into the morgue is no big deal.”

“No,” Scott says, and glances back at the building, “I overheard, the body, it’s gone.”

“Gone.” Stiles says flatly.

“Yeah, they think someone stole it.”

“Or,” Isaac frowns, “she got up and walked away.”

“She’s dead.”

“So was Peter.” Allison pips in and Stiles flinches hard enough for Derek to flash his eyes and step in between them, “sorry,” she mumbles.

“It’s fine,” Scott says for Stiles, “I think we need to wait until finals are over anyway.”

It’s partially true. Stiles has wasted almost a whole day of studying to find out nothing important. His real suspicious is that nothing important will show up unless they get back to Beacon Hills. After all, that is the rumor, of a Magik living in Beacon Hills. And Stiles has been hearing voices since the beginning of summer. Chances are the coven is just widening it’s search. At least, that’s what he’s going to tell himself until proven otherwise.

Derek doesn’t go back to the apartment with them, only mumbling something about meeting Cora at the library. He gives Stiles a longing desperate look though that stays with him for the most of the night. He doesn’t get any studying done himself and he knows he won’t, so he just goes to bed early. He’ll have to get up early anyway to make up for lost time today.

 

****

 

Whoa, super long time since the last update! Haha, I didn't notice time go by that fast. Thanks for reading you guys! I promise I won't have a five month update for the rest of the fic. Haha. :)

 


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